They announced themselves to the receptionist. As they waited, Nikki Heat perused a gallery of framed photos of Matthew Starr with presidents, royals, and celebrities. On the far wall, a flat screen soundlessly looped Starr Development’s corporate marketing video. In a glass trophy case, beneath heroic scale models of Starr office buildings and gleaming replicas of the corporate G-4 and Sikorsky-76, stretched a long row of Waterford crystal jars filled with dirt. Above each, a photograph of Matthew Starr breaking ground from the site that had filled the jar.
The carved mahogany door opened, and a man in shirtsleeves and a tie stepped out and extended his hand. “Detective Heat? Noah Paxton, I am…Rather, I was Matthew’s financial advisor.” As they shook hands, he gave her a sad smile. “We’re all still in shock.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said. “This is Jameson Rook.”
“The writer?”
“Yes,” he said.
“OK…,” said Paxton, accepting Rook’s presence as if recognizing there was a walrus on the front lawn but not understanding why. “Shall we go to my office?” He opened the mahogany door for them and they entered Matthew Starr’s world headquarters.
Heat and Rook both stopped. The entire floor was empty. Glass cubicles to the left and right were vacant of people and desks. Phone and Ethernet cables lay disconnected on floors. Plants sat dead and dying. The near wall showed the ghost of a bulletin board. The detective tried to reconcile the posh lobby she had just left with this vacant space on the other side of the threshold. “Excuse me,” she said to Paxton, “Matthew Starr just died yesterday. Have you already begun to close the business?”
“Oh this? No, not at all. We cleared this out a year ago.”
As the door closed behind them, the floor was so deserted the snap of the metal tongue latch actually echoed.
Heat Wave
THREE
Heat and Rook trailed two steps behind Noah Paxton as he led them through the vacant offices and cubicles of Starr Real Estate Development’s headquarters. In stark contrast to the go-?go opulence of its lobby, the penthouse floor of the thirty-?six-?story Starr Pointe tower had the hollow sound and feel of a foreclosed grand hotel after the creditors had swarmed it for everything that wasn’t nailed down. The space had an eerie, post-?biodisaster feel. Not merely empty, abandoned.
Paxton gestured to an open door and they entered his office, the only functioning one Heat had seen. He was listed as the corporation’s financial officer, but his furniture was a combo plate of Staples, Office Depot, and hand-?me-?down Levenger. Neat and functional but not the trappings of a Manhattan corporate head, even for a midsize firm. And certainly not befitting the Starr brand of swank and swagger.
Nikki Heat heard a small chuckle from Rook and followed the reporter’s line of sight to the poster of the kitty dangling from the branch. Under its rear paws was the caption “Hang in there, baby.” Paxton didn’t offer coffee from his four-?hour-?old pot; they just took seats in mismatched guest chairs. He established himself in the inner curve of his horseshoe workstation.
“We came to ask for your help understanding the financial state of Matthew Starr’s business,” said the detective, making it sound light and neutral. Noah Paxton was edgy. She was used to that; people got spooked by the badge same as they were by doctors’ white coats. But this guy couldn’t hold eye contact, a basic red flag. He looked distracted, like he was worried he’d left his iron plugged in at home and wanted to get there, and right now. Play it out mellow, she decided. See what tumbles when he lets himself relax.
He looked again at her business card and said, “Of course, Detective Heat,” once more trying to hold her look but only half making it. He made a deal of studying the card again. “There’s one thing, though,” he added.
“Go ahead,” she said, alert for the dodge or the call to the bull pen for a shyster.
“No offense, Mr. Rook.”
“Jamie, please.”
“If I have to answer police questions, that’s one thing. But if you’re going to quote me for some exposé in Vanity Fair or First Press—”
“Not to worry,” said Rook.